


Reconditioning

by HomunculusTrashParty



Series: Reconditioning / A Darker World [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Brainwashing, Dystopia, F/M, POV Second Person, Psychological Horror, Totalitarian regime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-17 06:46:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10588602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomunculusTrashParty/pseuds/HomunculusTrashParty
Summary: You are MA-3425, a stormtrooper who made the dire mistake of falling in love with FN-2187 right before he defected.You wish you never had.Maybe then, Ren would have left you alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rating is for future chapters.

You’re lonely.

He’s gone right now, and has been gone for a considerable length of time. You feel hollow and weak, as though the day he left you he took a vital organ and consumed it. You’re a strong person, a competent soldier—well, a competent Starkiller worker with basic training—and you’ve survived everything the galaxy has thrown at you thus far, from the casual bullying of your peers to the begrudging friendships you’ve managed to form. Fraternizing among stormtroopers is encouraged for morale, and you’ve even shared your bed with a few of them.

Unfortunately, one such person was FN-2187, and now Ren and the General have you on a blacklist of individuals who could possibly have been affected by his poisonous, treasonous psyche.

You were horrified to find out that he had done such a thing. You had mournfully stood in the bread aisle of the commissary, barely blinking, remembering FN-2187’s pretty face as he’d lain on top of you, strong arms surrounding you, hips driving into you over and over again until you both collapsed, exhausted, smiling and laughing gently. You felt as though he’d been killed in action—if only that were the case. Now he’s your enemy, and you hope desperately that you will never have to look him in the eye again.

General Hux, you heard, has been tasked with repairing any potential problems with the training regimen. There have been stories—many who are reconditioned are no longer themselves.

It is now 1800 hours, and Ren is due to arrive soon to question you. You sincerely hope that is the only thing he has in mind.

You’re standing at your post, anxiety tightening in your stomach as you flex your fingers to prevent them from going numb. Ren is almost a foot taller than you, bigger, stronger; he wields weapons you do not understand, not the least of which being the saber he carries. The Force is a mystery—like many, you didn’t believe in its existence, and have only seen it in action once. Kylo Ren has bad days, and you were unlucky enough to have crossed his path on one of them. It was fortunate indeed that he decided to smash the cleaning droid into the wall and not you. It had taken days to clear the scent of electrified machine lubricant from your nostrils. 

“MA-3425.”

You immediately snap to attention at the sound of your superior officer’s voice. “Sir.”

“Ren demands your presence and has sent me to bring you to him.”

“Yes, sir.”

You follow her as she leads you down the hall and into an elevator. She presses the button for a floor you’ve never been to, deep underground, and your ears pop as you both descend.

Finally, the door opens. “Ren has instructed me to leave you here,” your superior says. “Best of luck with the interview,” she adds vaguely, and you step forward, with the elevator doors shutting behind you. You hear it beep softly as it ascends.

You’ve arrived in a long, narrow hallway stretching from left to right in front of you, with an open door about ten feet from where you’re standing, dead ahead. From within, you hear a familiar voice that makes you sweat and shake.

“Welcome.”

“G-Good evening, sir,” you respond, slowly entering the room. Kylo Ren stands; he had been sitting at a table just barely out of view from the doorway. You salute with nervous enthusiasm, standing at attention, until you hear “at ease” crackle through his mask.

You glance back at the table. You had been hoping there’d be a pen and paper there, or a datapad—anything predictable that you’ve seen in interviews or questionings in the past. Ren has nothing. He has brought only himself to your meeting.

You want to know if you should sit, but you wouldn’t dare speak to Kylo Ren before being spoken to.

He looks you up and down, then circles around you, examining you from all angles. Fear makes your heart pound as your extremities tingle. You hope your uniform looks perfectly pressed, that your hair is still within regulation length, that your stance and form are exemplary—

“I didn’t bring you here to discuss trivialities,” he interrupts, and shock makes your stomach drop. He—he can read your mind? “I can do much more than that. You can’t keep anything from me.”

“Yes, sir,” you choke out, adrenaline coursing through your veins, as though there could possibly be any escape from harm if Ren determined you were deserving of it.

“I won’t harm you if you have nothing to hide,” he assures you, evenly, but you aren’t sure what he means. “Sit.” He gestures to a chair on the other side of the room, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you notice no torture devices or bondage mechanisms. Just an ordinary chair, metal, uncomfortable. You whisper a frightened “yes, sir” and do as he asks, sitting up straight with the best posture you can manage.

“What is your number?” He turns to face you, bending slightly at the waist to examine you more closely.

“MA-3425, sir,” you answer automatically.

Ren straightens to his full height. “What was the nature of your relationship with FN-2187?”

Panic floods your body; your hands shake, and you fight to resist dispelling their nervous energy. You can't give Ren any reason to harm you. “I—we were… workplace associates,” you stammer.

Ren doesn't move. “Workplace associates,” he repeats flatly.

“Yes, sir.”

The glimmer of hope you feel is dashed instantly by his reply. “I wasn't aware that 'workplace associates' fraternized so intimately, MA-3425. Perhaps I should keep a closer eye on all of you. Or would you rather tell me the truth?”

Embarrassment forces you to bow your head, putting Ren and his terrifying visage out of your line of sight. “I'm sorry, sir. We were… friends. Lovers.” Fear and nausea grip your stomach, with the sudden worry that Ren might ignite his legendary weapon and tear you into pieces.

“And at the time, were you aware that you were engaging yourself with a traitor?”

“No!” you exclaim, before correcting yourself, sitting back upright and doing your best to look him in the eye—or where his eyes should be, if he has them at all. “No, sir. I never—I was horrified, sir, when I found out it was him.” You blink back tears. “To think that FN-2187 was capable of such—”

“Save me the histrionics,” Ren calmly interrupts. He pauses, then steps closer to you and reaches out one large hand, looming too close to your face. You lean back and instinctively shut your eyes, hoping the tears in them won't slide down your cheeks and shame you. The sensation of him entering your mind is painful, a headache that beats.

“You're telling the truth,” he decides, then withdraws his hand, letting it fall to his side. You gasp for breath and shudder violently.

“The reason I've summoned you here today is to determine the cause of FN-2187's defection. You are one of the people who knew him best, I've been told. General Hux and I intend to neutralize or eliminate any potential threats to the First Order or its servicemembers. You understand that traitors in our midst are a threat to your safety as well, don't you?”

“Yes, sir,” you whisper, light-headed after his intrusion into your mind.

“Answer me.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Has FN-2187 ever received transmissions from outside the First Order?”

“I—I don’t know, sir. Is that even possible?” you ask timidly, feeling ignorant and small before him.

Ren cocks his head, and you cringe, hoping you haven’t angered him. “I can double check the comm records. If you’re withholding information, rest assured, I will find out.”

“I… Well—”

You feel yourself rising out of your chair, against your will; the gravity in the room seems to have changed, pushing against your body in all directions. You struggle, but the invisible bonds are as strong as durasteel cuffs, as you straighten to standing, hovering several inches off the ground until you are as tall as Ren himself.

Then you’re propelled forward, your neck fitting neatly into his outstretched hand, and you lose the ability to breathe. Your throat constricts, cutting off your airflow as your head goes light and dizziness begins to pull you into unconsciousness.

Abruptly, you fall to the ground, the pressure on your throat suddenly gone as you wheeze, gasping for breath, fingers curling to grip the brutally cold steel floor. You’re cowering before him as you shakily pull yourself up onto your hands and knees, head bowed in fear and submission, and as you struggle to look up, all you can see are Ren’s scuffed combat boots and singed armor. Tears stream down your face against your best efforts to stop them.

“You know the penalties for treason. In the future I will not be so lenient. Get on your feet and out of my sight until I call for you again.”

It takes all your strength to respond with a weak, feeble “yes, sir” and rise, fighting the darkness that surrounds your vision. Ren makes an unsatisfied cough, and as you hurry and leave, unable to turn and look at him again, you hear him mutter something under his breath about Hux’s soldiers being unfit for duty.

The elevator cannot come fast enough, but luckily, Ren is presumably occupied, because he doesn’t follow you. When at last you’re inside it and the doors shut, you let out a shuddering breath that sounds too much like a sob. Ren is right—you’re supposed to be a stormtrooper, not a scared child. You have failed him. As terrifying as he is, he is lord—he and General Hux and Captain Phasma. You’ve heard of a ‘supreme leader’ in conversation, but only once.

You dry your eyes and return to duty. If your superior officer and comrades notice your bruised throat, they keep it to themselves.

 

You lie awake that night, amid the hushed snores and breathing of the others who share a room with you. They have no trouble sleeping, naturally, because they didn’t know FN-2187 except in passing. Not the way you did. Not ‘intimately’, as Kylo Ren had so acidly pointed out.

Lying on your side, you curl up and try not to remember the way it felt to have him behind you, one arm draped over your waist as he breathed into your shoulder. You both had worried that your budding relationship would get in the way of duties or get you both reprimanded. It seemed like such a silly thing to worry about now.

Your thoughts drift off. Where is FN-2187 now? Why did he betray the First Order? Was he right to defect, or was it the greatest mistake of his life? Is he even still alive? You clutch your ugly, worn standard-issue blanket to your chest, deciding you might not want to know the answer. At least this way, you can persist in believing whatever you like, until his memory fades away from you, or until you are killed in action serving the First Order. General Hux had made it clear that he would expect nothing less.

You wonder: what would Kylo Ren do if he found FN-2187? The General would send him to reconditioning, but Ren had a vicious temper and, it was rumored, personal vendettas against several persons in the galaxy. What if FN-2187 became one of them? You wonder: what does he look like under the mask? Is he alien, human, android? Is he some combination, or some otherworldly presence like Darth Vader, who remained mysterious until his death? You imagine a human man, scarred and deformed—you can’t imagine any other reason he’d hide his face, if he even has a face. You imagine that his mask accommodates eyes and biped humanoid vocal capabilities, but it could just as easily be connected directly to his brain.

You hear a beeping noise from somewhere in the pocket of your uniform, folded up neatly on your chair in preparation for tomorrow, and freeze.

You close your eyes, hard, and pull the blanket over the left side of your head, pressing your right ear deeper into the pillow. One more beep and your comlink falls silent. You’ll check it in the morning. From the uninterrupted ambient sleeping noises surrounding you, you surmise that none of your roommates have been woken up, and you eventually fall asleep.

It’s dark, and you’re wandering through a forest, alone, listening for the enemy yet hearing nothing but broken twigs and leaves under your feet, the click of your armor. The thin, spindly trees are dimly lit by three moons in the sky; you look up and see one very large one looming close, with the others smaller and smaller trailing behind it.

This is a rescue mission. You become aware that FN-2187 is here, in this forest, and you must find him. You call out his number several times, but the only reply is the strange noise of some native bird.

As you slowly step forward, scanning the area for signs of movement or physical evidence of activity, you hear a loud noise from behind you, a clash followed by a strange crackling, whirring noise. You turn to investigate and find Ren standing there behind you, motionless, holding his legendary weapon.

“S—sir?”

He raises his saber above his right shoulder, then in one sharp motion he slashes right through your midsection.

You wake up on your back, gasping for breath, shuddering, clutching your ugly blanket to your chest. Your roommates are all still asleep, save one who has just gotten up to use the refresher and who will be going back to bed soon. You turn back over on your side, pretending to be asleep, so she can’t see your fear.

 

A long time ago, you were ecstatic about the seemingly high-profile career you were selected for upon graduation from General Hux’s training program. Working in the armory had sounded glamorous to you—and something that could get you noticed for advancement, as it required a level of clearance that was higher than you were expecting to earn.

The reality, however, is that standing at a desk and signing in and out equipment is far less exciting than you’d hoped it would be a few years prior when you’d accepted the assignment.

It’s even more difficult when you remember, as you do every day, that this is where you met FN-2187: a sanitation worker, now selected for stormtrooper training and in need of a blaster. You gave it to him, and as he handed you his signed documentation, he’d added a small note with his comm frequency on it.

Stashing it in your pocket, you spent the rest of your shift wondering if it would be insane of you to contact him. You’d been concerned that it would interfere with your duties, but you had seen several others engage in flirtations, and even seen one of your roommates kiss someone.

You called him, and within a few weeks, the slow burn of your attraction had grown into a fire so urgent that you worried that the medical bay would refuse to give you any more prophylactics. The two of you nervously awaited the interference of superiors and anticipated punishment, but none came; none, that is, until FN-2187 defected, and left you all alone in the wake of his betrayal.

So the place you first met him was also the _last_ place you saw him: at your desk, but this time, submitting his blaster for inspection at the request of Captain Phasma. He had worn his helmet, and aside from his voice sounding strained, you couldn’t remember anything else unusual about the circumstance. You had wanted to socialize, but were bound by duty and had no opportunity.

The next day, a message had been sent out to all servicemembers of the First Order that a stormtrooper had committed high treason by assisting the escape of a Resistance pilot that Kylo Ren himself had taken prisoner. They had stolen a TIE fighter and were now at large somewhere in the galaxy.

As you remember this, staring blankly at your computer screen, you suddenly realize now why Ren has chosen to focus on this case. FN-2187, _your_ FN-2187, had directly betrayed Ren _personally_. You can’t imagine a worse person in the galaxy to offend.

“MA-3425.”

“Sir?” You whirl around rapidly, startled.

Your superior officer, a taller woman with lean build, is examining her datapad. “Ren… wants to see you,” she read slowly, brows drawing closer with confusion.

Horror fills your insides, and you feel your stomach clench painfully. “Y…yes, sir,” you manage to reply, but barely.

“It doesn’t say why, unfortunately,” she adds, stuffing it in her pocket and giving you a pitying expression, the sort that makes you wonder if you’ll make it out alive. “But go ahead. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Yes, sir.” Your hands are cold, trembling. Even so, you salute and try to remain cautiously optimistic. 

Perhaps he found a flaw in Hux’s training program, and he wants to thank you for your assistance in finding it?

No, there’s no way that’s correct. Why would he bother to tell you? Ren hardly seems like the sort of person to say ‘thank you’ to anyone, though you’ve only spoken to him once; perhaps he’s not so severe with others closer to his rank. 

Has he gotten new intel about FN-2187? Will he share it with you? Is FN-2187 safe, is he alive?

Has Ren called you down to alert you that your lover is dead, and to watch you cry? No, that can't be right—if they had managed to capture or kill FN-2187, they would have sent out a celebratory message to all personnel, and a reminder that those wishing to align themselves with traitors would be dealt with accordingly. Additionally, there would be a reminder to alert authority figures if you were to witness behavior that threatened the First Order or its servicemembers, or that was unbefitting the organization as a whole and the excellence it stood for.

So, then, what summons could Ren possibly have for you this time?

You leave your post, and your superior officer gives you an apologetic look. The others have heard her speak of Ren, and they eye you with suspicion, no doubt wondering what you've done—positive or negative—that could possibly draw his attention. A few ambitious comrades even look at you with envy—you stare back incredulously, almost daring them to voice their discontent. You'd gladly trade places with them. This isn't a _good_ thing; you are not a shameless sycophant seeking favors or desiring Ren's power. You are a worker, with presumably your whole life ahead of you, and your preference is to keep it that way.

So you walk with a paradoxical combination of fearful hurry and dread that makes you want to drag your feet. Your traitorous heart calls to mind images of FN-2187, standing up for you against the terror of your commander. The thought shocks you and quickens your pace. Across how far a distance can Ren hear your thoughts? Is he listening right now?

Your heart sinks. Maybe you _are_ a traitor, and you deserve this scrutiny, to be taken apart and put back together again by General Hux's “reconditioning” program. You've heard stories, but no one who survives the program remembers how it felt. Perhaps it's for the best, you truly, truly don't want to know—

It takes three tries to get your trembling fingers to call the elevator, and another two to key in the code for the abyssal level. The jarring of the elevator startles you and you let out a shrill gasp, then take a step back, pressing your backside against the rear of the car. You hold the handrails on either side and take a deep breath, exhaling slowly through your mouth to calm yourself. It's like Ren said—“I won't harm you, if you have nothing to hide.”

And you have nothing to hide, right?

The doors open and you turn your attention to making your way through the narrow stretch of hallway. The room you met him in is across a long hallway that, you assume, runs around the planet core like a torus. You can see only the slightest of curvature on either side as you approach. The room appears empty, and you slowly step through the doorway, expecting Ren to appear from either side, standing in your blind spot, ready to pounce.

As you hesitantly walk to the center of the room, noting the empty, plain metal chair positioned alone and the long, curved white table by the wall on your right side, you hear a deep, mellow crackled voice from behind you.

“Go ahead. Make yourself comfortable.”

It sounds more like a dare than hospitality, but you obey, moving to sit in the chair and face him. You wish he'd sit with you, pull the table out— _anything_ that could break your discomfort and make this feel like an ordinary discussion—

“Sir,” you begin, then cringe as Ren cocks his head at you slightly.

You hear the equivalent of an eyebrow raise in his voice. “What is it, MA-3425?”

“Nothing,” you quickly blurt out in panic.

“You know I'm going to find out anyway,” he says matter-of-factly. “You might as well save us the trouble.”

You swallow hard. “I don't understand why I'm here, sir.” You look at your clasped hands in your lap.

“Don't you?”

“Sir—I don't _know_ anything about FN-2187's whereabouts,” you protest anxiously. “If I did, I'd...” You trail off.

He looks you up and down. “You'd what?” It's softly spoken, but with an unmistakable edge.

“I—” You try to calm your stuttering pulse and look for the right words, but it takes you a suspiciously long time to find them, and you know in your heart that Ren cannot be fooled. “I'd let you know, sir.”

“You'll understand if I don't believe you,” he replies with mock pity.

Suddenly, your pocket beeps. Both of your heads turn to it. You begin to sweat.

“Give it to me,” Ren demands immediately, and you instinctively pat your hip to feel for it—

And then it's gone, flying out of your pocket by itself and into Ren's large hand. He's holding your comm, and as he flicks it open with his thumb, you realize that you never actually looked to see who had contacted you.

You both hear static, the distant warbling of an alien language, a very quick sound byte that strikes you as oddly familiar, and then nothing.

Ren stares at it intently, then suddenly stiffens, and you fear that he'll crush your comlink in his hand. He instead leans forward, invading your space.

“So. Care to tell me why you're receiving transmissions from an outpost on Jakku?”

A torrent of emotions crushes your body. Fear, horror, elation all appear and dissolve in less than a second. FN-2187 is _alive_ , you know now for sure, and he's trying to tell you he's all right—

A jarring thud interrupts your relief and brings you back down to earth—Ren has pounded furiously on the table near you to get your attention. You inhale sharply.

“Perhaps I'm not making myself clear,” he growls, breathing heavily. “The First Order does not tolerate fraternization with the enemy. You're of a lowly rank, so I'll explain it to you.

“If you respond to this message, I will personally carry out your sentence. No trial. No witnesses. No one will remember you.” Tears start in your eyes. “Do you vow to keep your conduct in line, or do I have to imprison you?”

“No!” you shriek. “I—I mean, no, sir,” you hurry to correct.

Seconds tick by as he stares at you, as you feel your skin crawl with fear. Then your head is forced back, a crushing pain in your skull that makes you scream in agony.

“I don't know where he is! I don't know why he's contacting me!” The pounding in your head will burst your skull if it persists—

“Don't play games,” he shouts. “Is he coming back for you? Does he plan to threaten the First Order?”

You scream again, tears flowing down your face, followed by your nose running uncomfortably down into your open mouth.

Then it stops, and you slump down in your chair, head in your hands as you start sobbing openly. It's too much to bear—the terror, the longing for your lost love, the knowledge that by the end of this ordeal, neither of you will be left standing in the wake of Ren's wrath—why is he doing this?

You hear a skip and a clatter across the floor and look up—Ren has tossed your comlink back at you, and you stare up at him, baffled. You summon the courage to look into his mask, where his eyes should be, and you see his shoulders heaving, hearing the slightest wheeze come through his vocoder.

Then he turns his back to you, and with a sudden guttural cry, ignites his saber and begins slashing furiously at the doorway. You leap up from your chair and scurry under the table—as though any amount of cover could protect you from an omnipotent force like his—and hear the chair scrape the floor before it hurls itself into the back wall, cracking the rock formation that's been carved smooth.

Then the beam of his weapon rushes back into its handle, and you hear Ren wheeze again. He leaves without another word, each step heavy on the steel floor, fading slowly until you collapse, curling into the fetal position beneath the table, whimpering and crying.


	2. Chapter 2

You wake up the next morning, weary, and feel as though you've only slept for an hour. You've had another nightmare, waking up several times in the middle of the night, feeling like you were being watched. You had gotten to your feet, quietly inspecting every dark corner and bunk to ensure that no one was lurking, waiting for you.

You wonder if there are security cameras hidden anywhere in Starkiller, but decide not to look for them on your way to the mess hall. Everyone around you is chattering, some more awake than others, and as you gratefully accept your caf and breakfast, you look for a place to sit down.

In the past, you might have sat with FN-2187 and his friends, but it feels wrong now, and at any moment Ren could appear, intent on hearing whether the conversation led to FN-2187.

So you sit alone, at the same table as many of your peers, but you don't know any of them. A junior First Order member comes up to you—she can't be any older than twelve—and sits in front of you.

“Hey,” the girl says.

“Hi,” you answer, taking a bite of your toast.

“Is it true that you've met Kylo Ren?” she asks excitedly.

You cringe. Ren is the last person you want to discuss right now. “Yes,” you reply cautiously, “but I'm not at liberty to discuss it. I'm sorry.”

The girl makes a face at you. “Why not?”

“It's classified,” you explain. “You'll understand once you complete your education. Be sure that you don't share things with people unless you're cleared to,” you warn her, uneasily.

“Come on, EE-7183,” a woman around your age calls out, and the girl gets up.

“I gotta go eat breakfast, my teacher's calling me. Bye!”

You wave half-heartedly at her, and sigh. She really doesn't want to know about Ren; you wish you could protect her, but there's nothing you can do.

You can't even save yourself.

You've lost your appetite, but you finish eating anyway. Being well-fed is important, and encouraged. The training is rigorous enough that everyone is fit, with regular physicals to identify anomalies before they can spread.

When you arrive at the armory to begin work, you're surprised to see that someone else is at your desk. You turn to your superior officer, who is training the young man in your seat, and she finishes her sentence and turns to you.

“Sir,” you begin, saluting.

“At ease,” she greets you. “Come with me,” she says, and her tone is not encouraging.

You both retreat to her office, and she sits at her desk, inviting you to sit in front of her. You do so hesitantly, glancing at the immaculate desktop, the orderly computer station.

“You've been selected for General Hux's reconditioning program,” she explains, her voice tinged with disappointment. Is she upset with you? Does she think you're a traitor?

“I know you were close to him,” she admits. “I think this might be the best option.”

“Sir...” You stare at her in disbelief. “You—you honestly don't believe that...”

“It isn't up to me, MA-3425,” she sighs, then examines you intently. “I don't know what I believe. But I do know that I oversee members of FN-2187's cohort who work the late-cycle shift, and I've not received word of Ren needing more than one audience with them. Of course, it's classified information.” She suddenly looks uncomfortable. “I shouldn't have shared that with you. Don't tell anyone.”

You nod. “Of course, sir.” The knot in your gut tightens.

“It's likely that they just want to be sure. You aren't the first or last person who has been sent to this program. Just follow their orders and you should be able to return once you're finished.”

You don't believe her optimism for a second, but you nod anyway. “Yes, sir. Shall I go now, sir?”

“Yes. It's on the tenth level down, below the training gymnasiums. Oh—your new trainer is here.” She looks behind you, out the window of her office, and you turn to see a rather imposing-looking man. You're nervous, but at least he's human; he has a face, and eyes.

You bid your now former superior officer goodbye and approach the trainer. He's taller than you, but not as tall as Ren. He bears a slight resemblance to General Hux in demeanor. “You're MA-3425,” he guesses.

“Yes, sir.”

“Follow me.”

 

“Welcome, everyone,” he begins, and you take a brief look around you—you're seated in what would be a classroom, but with no windows, adornments, books or study aids. You are all seated at white tables several feet away from each other; you have been ordered to lean back in your chair, to fit your neck into something that's somewhere between a cushion and a restraint. So seated, you are unable to see your comrades through your peripheral vision, not even those in front of you, and are unable to turn your head in any direction but forward.

“You have been asked to take part in this program to ensure the safety of yourself, your peers, and the organization as a whole,” he explains. “You may, at any point, withdraw from the program,” he qualifies hesitantly, “but you would immediately be stripped of your rank and face charges of treason. As you know, it is a crime punishable by death.”

You try not to think.

“First, we are going to go over our core values,” he begins. “The First Order's rise to power was no accident, and our vision for a peaceful, prosperous galaxy will be implemented through our own hard work and dedication to excellence. For this organization to succeed, it requires the full and unflinching commitment of its members. You were all selected for your astounding gifts, and all we ask of you is to use them in your service to the First Order.”

You don't feel particularly gifted at the moment, but his optimism is encouraging. Maybe this won't be terrible.

“You have been called here because it has come to the attention of our leadership that you are in need of support. Some of you have doubts: in our future, in your own potential. Others of you”—is he looking at you, or through you?—“have erred, in whole or in part, or are in need of reminding why our enemies are, indeed, our enemies. By the time you complete this program, you will be able to return to service with a fresh start, a singleness of focus and a strong conscience free of uncertainty. Here, your skills are valued. The Republic wastes the talents of its members, and sends them to their deaths in the form of its terrible Resistance. It is the regime of oligarchs, of those who seize power not because they have the gift of governance, but simply because they can. We will replace their reign of terror and unrest with peace and justice, and we will do it together, as one cohesive whole.” He beams. “Now, all of us together will recite our vows, and then we'll split up and each of you will be given one-on-one support.”

Your mouth opens automatically, and you hear your words in the voices of your peers, all as one. How many of you are there? Ten? Thirty? Three hundred?

When you've repeated it to his satisfaction—you lost count after twenty—your instructor congratulates you, and then one by one, you all extricate yourselves from your strange seating configuration and form a single-file line from the doorway that extends around the perimeter of the room, which is larger than you remember. How many people are sent here? Is this a large group? Are there other rooms like this one? Your mind is blank as you try to remember the hallway you came in.

Soon, it's your turn to meet up with your tutor—she looks to be your age, potentially even younger. She has made up for her junior age with enthusiasm; you notice her straight posture, her impeccably pressed uniform. It's very different from your own. Did she earn this position immediately after graduating? You feel a mix of envy and discomfort.

“MA-3425,” she greets you.

“Yes, sir,” you affirm.

“At ease.” She gestures, and you follow her down yet another hallway. All the walls in this sector of Starkiller are white, absolutely free of scuffs and blemishes, and even the floor beneath your feet is a bright off-white. Your heart betrays you, and a vision of FN-2187 in his work uniform is called up from your memory. You imagine him with a cloth and bucket, wiping the walls to perfection. A cleaning droid buzzing about the floor completes the image, and you swallow it down. No, you can't think about him anymore, most certainly not here. You don't think ordinary Starkiller servicemembers can read your thoughts the way Ren can, but better to be safe than to be branded a traitor forever and potentially face your own death.

You miss his eyes and smile. And somehow, you don't have it in you to blame him for your ordeal.

You reach your destination and are shown your training room. Like the hallways, it is bright and white, with no windows. You sit at the only table in the center of the room and your tutor sits across from you.

“So,” she begins, and relaxes her posture; you follow suit, the softness of her voice calming you somewhat. “It's important for you to know that you aren't in any danger. As long as you adhere fully to our program and vow to change your behavior, you will be able to return to duty.”

“Sir...” you begin. She looks at you with a trace of pity. “If I'd known he was going to betray us, I never would have—” You stop.

“Of course you wouldn't have,” she agrees soothingly. “We never mean to transgress. But you do understand, don't you? The seed of treachery is in all of us, if we allow it to grow. We must deprive it of air, sunlight and water until it is destroyed.” She stands. “I want you to do an exercise with me. We can't treat your illness if we don't first acknowledge it.”

You slump in your seat, even as you try not to. “Please, I'm innocent,” you protest.

“I know,” she replies. “If you weren't, you wouldn't be here. Just do as you're told. Stand up.” You stand. “Repeat after me. 'I am guilty by association. I need to change.'”

“I am guilty by association,” you sigh. “I need to change.”

“Keep repeating it,” she continues.

“I am guilty by association. I need to change.” You take a deep breath. “I am guilty by association. I need to change.” Your eyes water. “I—I am guilty b-by association. I need to change.” Your head bows, and tears roll down your face. “I-I-I'm guilty by association, I need to change.”

When your mouth and throat are dry, she allows you to stop. You wipe the tears from your cheeks and sniffle loudly.

“There,” she soothes. “Doesn't that feel better?”

“Yes, sir,” you whimper, painfully, eyes downcast. “I'm sorry, sir,” you add, a great weight in your chest choking you.

“You'll have an opportunity to repent later on,” she assures you. “Now, I want you to tell me everything you know about FN-2187, or rather, the person he used to be.”

Your hands cool and tingle. “He seemed kind,” you begin. “Optimistic, but… withdrawn.” She nods. “I don't know… He never seemed to have anything wrong with him.”

“Sometimes the ones we befriend are not always what they appear to be,” she says. “We must stay vigilant.”

“I have been, sir,” you say weakly. “He… he was one of only three people I've ever been friends with.”

“Do you know where these friends are now?” You meet her stare; her eyes are blue, clear, without a trace of deceit.

“I...” You try to think. “No, I don't,” you realize, suddenly feeling odd.

“How unfortunate—you've had no role models,” she laments. “But that's okay. It means you've also only become close to one potentially—indeed, very harmful person.” She looks at you with concern. “FN-2187 is not the person you thought he was,” she says gently. “Accept the truth, as painful as it may be. Say it, to yourself, over and over. I'll count for you. 'FN-2187 is not who I thought he was. I must forget him.'”

“FN-2187… is not who I thought he was.” You immediately begin to cry, and your voice trembles. “I must forget him.”

You repeat it until she's finished counting with her fingers, as the tear tracks on your cheeks begin to dry.

“Very good. Now, we are going to get you some food and water and a trip to the refresher, and we'll return here.”

You follow her, and she stands outside the door as you use the refresher. Then she leads you into another large, bright room, and you're given a tray as you sit down at a table. You eat in silence, glancing over at your comrades, who are also silent.

The food is similar to what you usually eat, if a little bland. You gratefully drink your whole glass of water, and no attempt is made to stop you from obtaining another. You must admit that this program isn't nearly as scary as you thought it was going to be.

Then you see a flash of black in your peripheral vision, hear the emphatic steps of combat boots. You turn, and Kylo Ren is standing in the doorway. He glances inside the room, scanning the perimeter, then leaves.

It takes a few seconds to register that your heart is, in fact, beating, and you haven't gone into cardiac arrest.

What is Ren doing here? Is he looking for you? But if so, why did he leave?

The silence is finally broken as your comrades whisper to one another.

_Was that Kylo Ren?  
I've heard he has superpowers!  
He can move things with his mind, I saw it once!  
Doesn't he have a bad temper?  
I wish he would talk to me…  
He's terrifying! I wouldn't want to upset him…  
I heard he and General Hux don't like each other very much._

You remain silent, finishing your meal even as your hand shakes and food falls off your utensil.

 

Your tutor leads you back into the same blank room you were in before. You want to ask her about Ren's appearance, but she likely either doesn't know, or is under orders not to tell you.

“Do you feel better?” she asks, in that same soothing tone. You're surprised to discover that you do.

“Yes, sir,” you offer.

“It's amazing, the clarity and relief from suffering we attain when we let go of that which burdens us, isn't it?”

You must admit that it is. Maybe there is hope after all—remembering FN-2187 will only bring you pain. Your life is here, with the First Order, and even if you had a choice, surely you would want to remain with those who provide for you? After all, the armory is just the beginning—you could earn so much more, but you must stay. Defection would only bring your death. No man, no matter how special, could ever be worth such a sacrifice.

“Yes, sir,” you reply, more certain of yourself this time. She seems pleased with the relief in your tone.

“I'm so glad to hear it. Perhaps you'll allow me a brief diversion,” she begins.

“Of course, sir.”

“I was so happy to be chosen for this position. Helping to provide therapy and rehabilitation for those who have lost all hope—it truly is a privilege to witness the transformation of an individual, don't you agree?” You nod. “While I will serve the First Order in any capacity it requires of me, I am not particularly gifted at combat. Of course, it is often the case that during trying times we can achieve things we never dreamed possible.” She clasps her hands in front of her and meets your eyes, smiling. “That's what I'm asking of you today. To keep an open mind. To learn to trust in your own potential again. I know you're not a traitor, and so do you. You know that you're capable of great things, and that you are in need of great leadership to make it possible.” She pauses, examining your face politely. “Do you have any questions, MA-3425? Any thoughts? You have permission to speak freely. We want this to be a truly life-changing process.”

You search for words. “How… how long will it take before I'm no longer burdened by thoughts of FN-2187? They… they bring me great despair.” Your eyes well up. “I am heartbroken at his behavior. I cannot reconcile it with the man I once knew.”

“I'm sorry,” she says. “What are you feeling is natural and understandable. But please remember, he has made a choice he can never take back, and you have a commitment that cannot be broken. Tell me… do you value the First Order? Do you well and truly believe in our ideals?”

“Yes!” you protest. “Why does no one believe me?!”

She falls silent, and you're scared. Will she turn you over to Ren? When she speaks again, it is slowly and with great care. “If you complete the program, he will do you no harm.”

You blink, suddenly feeling betrayed.

“Don't worry,” she encourages you. “You're doing very well. In fact, we're going to finish ahead of schedule.”

You're still staring at her; you must look accusatory, because she composes herself before speaking again.

“I don't think your honesty in this process is necessarily treasonous,” she adds hesitantly. “But it's all the more reason to work to let go.”

“I do want to let go, I do,” you urge, feeling slightly safer in her presence now, or at least more secure that she won't turn you in to Ren.

“Then let's begin again. 'I am a loyal servicemember of the First Order. There is no room in my heart for traitors.'”

“I am a loyal servicemember of the First Order,” you cry out. “There is no room in my heart for traitors!”

You shout it until you begin to lose your voice. You have no idea how long it takes before she holds up one halting hand.

“That'll be enough.” She smiles. “It does indeed look like we'll be finishing ahead of schedule.”

 

You're given a cot to sleep on in your training room, and while you're uneasy that there's a guard outside your door, you're grateful at least that she can let you use the refresher or attend to any medical needs if they arise. So it isn't true imprisonment, not really; your dignity is intact, and if your trainer is telling the truth, soon you'll be able to leave.

The next day is much like the first: you recite at her request, until your throat hurts, until you lose your voice. Then she gives you a sheet of paper, and you cover it back and front, your sweaty hands smearing the ink on the page. _I am a loyal servicemember of the First Order. I serve General Hux, Kylo Ren and the First Order. There is no room in my heart for traitors. There is no room in my heart for traitors. There is no room in my heart for traitors._

Every repetition of Ren's name strengthens your resolve. You will forget, you will get out of here, you will let go. FN-2187 is a traitor, a traitor, one who deserves death. He betrayed you, and all that you stand for. He is not the man you knew. He was not the man you thought you knew. The seeds of treachery were inside him. They are not inside you. You will crush them. You are a loyal servicemember of the First Order. You only want to do your duty. You will let go.

You eat, you sleep, you do it again. And again. Your voice is gone, your heart in physical pain, your hand cramping, and your spirit broken.

And then it's over—seven, ten, thirty days later. It's all the same to you; there are no calendars, no datapads. They confiscated your comlink long ago. You've eaten the same meal at every period, every day.

“MA-3425,” your tutor says, summoning you from restless sleep.

“Yes, sir,” you cough, still unable to fully speak.

“Congratulations!” she says excitedly. “You've successfully completed the program and can return to duty. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” you whisper. “Free of conflict.”

“Excellent. Go ahead and return to your living space. Your superior officer has allowed you a reprieve, and you will assume duties tomorrow. I'm sure that you will continue to have a long and fulfilling career here.”

You salute, and are accompanied to the blast doors closing off this area. It's different than where you came in, but your'e able to find an elevator and a skybridge to take you back to where you came from.

The first thing you do when you get back is shower; the facilities where you stayed were… inadequate. The heat comforts you, and evidently today is not a mandatory conservation day, as the water still runs after you're finished. You allow yourself another few precious minutes, then dry off and decide to nap in your bunk.

You dream of Ren, but this time, he shuts off his saber, turns his back on you and leaves.


	3. Chapter 3

When you wake up, you decide to get some exercise. Part of you wants fresh air after being captive, but obtaining clearance to leave the base and go to the surface isn't a simple process. A field trip you went on as a student took you on a hike, but there weren't many sights to see—somehow, inspecting the minimal amount of above-ground architecture wasn't as thrilling as any of you had hoped. 

So you instead head over to the recreation center. There's one for every few sectors, and they contain various rooms for sports.

You can't have been in reconditioning that long, because your lock hasn't been cut and your belongings are where you left them. You're sore and stiff from being hunched over, writing furiously until the skin on your fingers went raw and began to peel off. Exercise might help the pain, or at least pass the time between now and your return to duty tomorrow. 

You change into your drab gray shirt, sports bra and running shorts, trading your boots for athletic shoes. As you place your uniform in your locker, you feel an object in the pocket of your trousers. Your comlink. You'd forgotten—they gave it back to you, while you were dizzy and still groggy from sleep. You pull it out of your pocket and check it. No messages. You breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps this ordeal is over—you've completed the program, you feel better, and you're no longer receiving suspicious transmissions.

You walk into a room nearby, the floor covered in padded mats. You sit down and begin stretching, legs apart in a V as you reach forward, laying the upper half of your body on your left leg as you touch your toes.

As you count each stretch, you hear voices from around you, giggling and talking loudly. You look up, and there's a group of three women, chattering excitedly about the new holonet program. You recognize one of them as your roommate, but you remain silent, unwilling to interrupt their conversation. Why? She knows you, and you've been away for a while; you'll have to check a calendar somewhere.

They leave, and you don't pursue them. Instead, you get to your feet, leave, go to the track, and run as fast as you can around it.

The track is about half a mile long, and you count laps in your head as you go, passing by those who are more leisurely runners, those who aren't seeking to forget their misery via overexertion.

You think about your roommate. She's been friends with the others you saw for a while now—they met when she was temporarily transferred to another sector to fill in for someone who had been killed in action. The holonet program they mention is unfamiliar to you. Perhaps you can watch it later.

After you've run ten miles, you call it a day, and you stretch once again and rinse off in the shower, before getting dressed in your off-duty clothes. Muscles burning and tight, you decide to head to one of the media rooms; you likely have a fair amount to catch up on, depending on how long you've been gone.

You enter, finding a chair in the back away from the others, and glance up at the screen. It's a galactic news program—a clip from the Republic's biased account of whatever is going on in the Senate. The screen flashes to show a First Order reporter, pointing out the flaws in the argument and issuing a reminder of how much work we still have to do.

Then you see it, in the corner of the screen—the date and time, next to a scrolling line of text. It's the first day of the third period of the current solar cycle.

You were in reconditioning for twenty-nine days.

You reel with shock and horror, and you now understand why you're so exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally. You look down at the bandages they applied to the crook of your thumb and forefinger, from all that time spent writing your vows.

You find it hard to pay attention to the news, and when the program your roommate likes comes on, your heart isn't in it. You go home and go to bed.

 

The next day, you arrive at the armory and your replacement is gone, leaving your desk unoccupied. You gratefully sit down at it, adjust the monitor height and shuffle a few things around. Your superior officer is glad to see you; you can tell by the nod she gives you and the curve of a smile at the edge of her mouth. You're glad to be back, though even after you optimize your desk, something still feels off.

Your superior officer says nothing about your bandaged hand or the huge circles under your puffy eyes, either.

There's a lot of records that need updating; your temporary replacement must not have done this sort of work before. You go in and correct his errors, thoroughly grateful for the noise around you, the clacking of keys, hum of equipment and occasional mumble or conversation.

Hours gently slip by, and you can feel the tension in your body slowly begin to dissipate. You're no longer worried about FN-2187. He's gone now, and can never return. Even if you wanted him to.

Something passes through your peripheral vision, and you pause and glance up, expecting to see someone waiting for you to assist them, or a droid.

It's Ren.

He's lurking in the hallway, pausing mid-step, as though he's looking for something. You share a brief, surreal moment, staring in surprise at his masked face as he stares back. Your heart stops. Does he want to talk to you?

He turns away and leaves, with the same loud, emphatic steps as you remember.

You're frozen in place, unblinking, and when you remember how to breathe, you look back down at your desk, throat dry, heart pounding with fear.

A burst of activity happens around you. Hushed voices excitedly discuss the significance of Ren's appearance. _What is he doing here? Is he here to talk to us? I've never spoken to him before. This is the first time I've even seen him in person!_

You're shaking, in a fixed stare down at your desk.

“MA-3425?” someone asks. It's apparently the second or third time he says it, because he's looking at you with confusion.

You look up. “Yes?”

“Is it true that you've met him?” he asks with enthusiasm. Then he frowns. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” you lie. “Yes, I've met him,” you add, and leave it at that.

Thankfully, he doesn't ask you anything else. But you can still hear him talking to the others. _See? She_ has _met him. But I don't think she's allowed to talk about it. I want to know what he's like. Is he human?_

Your superior officer comes in to remind everyone to do their tasks, but unfortunately your focus has been lost. He saw you—he stared directly at you. It was you he was looking for. Why didn't he speak to you? If he came looking for you, why did he leave?

You decide you're thankful either way, and do your best to get back to work.

 

You return, still weary from work and the emotional strain of days and days spent in reconditioning. Your eyes are still adjusting to normal light, dimmer than that of the training rooms, and spots swim in your vision every time you close your eyes. Your next meal is eaten in silence, as you yet again forgo sitting with your former acquaintances, FN-2187's friends. They seem happy, talking and laughing as though nothing has happened. You feel a mix of envy and disgust. Did FN-2187 mean so little to them?

Have any of them been to reconditioning? You look for signs—sunken eyes, a hunching of shoulders, bandaged hands, cracking voices—and find none. Not a one.

So why were you special?

One of them looks over at you; you're a table away, across and to their right. He suddenly pales and goes back to talking to the others. You don't look _that_ ill, do you? It's all right; you didn't want to sit with anyone anyway.

You bitterly cut through your meat ration with your utensils, accidentally scraping the plate and drawing attention to yourself. A few others from a nearby table see you, and their faces reflect similar revulsion.

You lose your appetite and finish eating anyway. You're too weak to give up food. Do you really look so terrible? Is there any way you can find someone else who went through reconditioning? You aren't able to discuss your offenses, but surely they'll understand? Surely they won't look at you with such horror?

As you go to return your dishes, you scan the crowd for faces as tired as yours, and find none. Everyone is varying levels of upbeat, with a few tired individuals, but no one like you. Was that treatment reserved only for you?

You're back in your room now, alone. You assume all your roommates are out socializing; some of them are working, but others, you know, have free time. You have a new training manual open in your lap, but reading is the last thing you want to do, so you slam it shut and stash it under your bed.

Your hand brushes something plastic and metal, and you flinch. You'd forgotten—after your comlink was returned to you upon completion of reconditioning, you had tossed it under there, terrified to carry it around with you. Your fingers close around it, and you pull it out from under your bed as you sit down.

Then it beeps, and you give a startled yelp and chuck it across the room.

You collapse onto your side, suddenly sobbing and rocking, your head by your knees. You can't—this can't be happening, not now, not again—

You have to turn it in to Ren. You have to. It's the only thing you can do now, to plead guilty, plead for your life.

So you allow yourself a half hour of bitter tears flowing into your mouth, followed by a bout of spectacularly painful nausea that you just barely manage to contain. You rise, shaking, to your feet, and retrieve the comlink. You flick it open, averting your eyes, and then look. The tiny screen has a simple text readout; it isn't as sophisticated as a datapad, but written messages can be sent and received as well as audio transmissions. You don't rank nearly highly enough for anything better.

As you read, you inhale sharply with surprise.

_[MA-3425? It's me. Finn.]_

Finn?

_FN-2187?_

You can't, you _can't_ —

_[I miss you so much]_ , you type.

_[I miss you too.]_

_[Why did you leave?]_ You wipe your face with your bed sheets as you sit back down again, head bowed in bitter anguish. To hear from him again, after everything you've been through…

Minutes pass, and you fear the worst.

_[Because I didn't want to kill.]_

_[But you're under orders],_ you protest.

_[Not now. I'm free now. You could be free too.]_

Suddenly there's an incoming audio transmission, and you're terrified that someone might be listening in, but you can't bear it any longer. He's alive. He still loves you.

You break down.

“Please don't say things like that,” you beg in a whisper. “I've been to reconditioning. Ren is furious, and once he finds out what you told me he's going to kill us both if he finds out.” You stop to catch your breath. “I'm so scared. He's in my dreams, and he'll kill me for what we're doing, for what you're saying—”

“I want to save you,” he declares, and you choke on a sob at the sound of his voice. “Mae… I'm gonna call you Mae. You deserve a name, a real name, not a number.”

Your stomach drops, but it's nothing compared to the rapture you feel when you hear him say it. Mae. _Mae._ The name rings in your ears, over and over again.

“Save me from what?” you whisper, but in your heart you know the truth.

You'd do anything to see him again, and the thought terrifies you.

“I can't tell you what will happen next,” he admits, sadly, “but… Just hold on for me, Mae. Can you do that?”

The tone of his voice, honest and kind, wrenches your heart terribly. There's a good chance that you'll never see him, that he'll die in the attempt, that you'll be killed for this—but you don't voice a single concern. Anything is preferable to the way you're stared at now, with disgust, fear, ignorant envy.

“Yes, I can,” you promise. “I love you,” you add suddenly, as though the words have just jumped into your head, and as though they will be the last you ever say.

“I love you too. I have to go—I've risked too much already. Be safe.”

“You too,” you add.

And then he's gone, and with him, your last shred of hope.

You're exhausted, but you do your best to force yourself to stay awake. You know what awaits you if you fall asleep.

You get out of bed, stumble, get a pen and paper out of your drawer, and begin to write. _I am a loyal servicemember of the First Order. I serve General Hux, Kylo Ren and the First Order. There is no room in my heart for traitors. I am guilty by association. I need to change._

You fall asleep on the floor, pen and comlink forgotten, among seventeen pages of a notebook full of smeared vows.

 

You don't sleep well. Ren's masked face interrupts your dreams again and again. You wake up two hours after you lay down, and after you use the refresher and have a drink of water, you stare at yourself in the mirror, and gasp.

Your eyes are puffy, circles as dark as the time one of your peers took a swing at you during basic training. Your cheeks are hollow, and you finally remember to change into your ratty standard-issue pajamas. You take off your shirt and bra and note in the mirror the hollows of your collarbone and the sudden sharpness of your shoulders that weren't there before. You forgot to eat dinner again, you realize. You're still not hungry. Your hand hurts. Your eyes are strained.

You lay back down, your old ugly blanket to your chest as you lay facing the wall. Then you turn onto your other side. You're reasonably sure that Ren wouldn't break into your room, but best to watch the door anyway.

You fall asleep again.

General Hux has chosen to make an example of you. You're standing in one of the great halls, in the same room where you graduated from basic training and the same room that weekly morale lectures are held. You've been to hundreds of them. Now you're front and center, just to the left of the podium, standing in front of the huge red and black banners with the sunburst crest of the First Order.

“This soldier is a traitor,” General Hux declares, each well-enunciated syllable piercing the deathly, respectful silence of the room. As his voice rings in the echoes of the hall and bounces back, you feel as though every corner of the room is condemning you.

You're unwilling to speak, and you suspect that there is nothing you _can_ say. He's made his mind up; they all have. So you stand there, your hands cuffed together in front of you.

“Does anyone have anything to offer in defense of this traitor?” The General sounds murderous, and you bow your head in shame. You were supposed to serve him, to serve the First Order; you were supposed to pledge the ultimate in honor by laying down your life in service.

You were supposed to die a glorious death, and yet here you are, shaking in silence, too afraid to speak, too exhausted to cry.

Your eyes scan the crowd, looking for movement. You don't recognize a single face—not your roommates, not your superior officers, not FN-2187's friends.

Then something shifts, and your eyes train on it, then avert in terror.

Kylo Ren, apparently, has something to say. You silently beg him for mercy. Surely he can hear you?

He advances until he's at the front of the crowd, in the aisle with legions on either side, contrasting his black regalia with neat blocks of white armor.

“Give her to me,” Ren offers. “I will see to her fate.”

You shake your head—this wasn't what you were asking for—

The General scowls, looks at you with disgust, and then back at Ren with ire. “Take her, then,” he spits, gesticulating angrily.

Ren approaches, climbs the steps to the platform; with your eyes closed, all you hear is the click of his combat boots.

The cuffs open and fall to the floor. You look up. Ren is in front of you, fifteen feet and closing, until he's close enough to touch. You smell steel, scorched fabric and sweat. You expect him to grab you, but he doesn't. Instead, he nods, then turns and walks away, down the stairs, down the aisle, and you follow him.

You wake up, and find your fear has given way to a profound feeling of unease.

 

You wake up, shower and do your best to look human. There's nothing you can do about your looks, but at least the strain in your neck, shoulders and arms is beginning to heal.

Then you remember talking to FN-2187—Finn—FN-2187 and wonder if there's any way you can get clearance to go to the bottom of the base and hurl your comlink into the abyss. However, it would confirm your guilty conscience, and Ren could always find the truth in your mind.

Your heart stutters. Is there any way you could appeal to Ren? Would he be able to verify your innocence? But if he found you innocent, you reason, he would have called off the investigation by now.

With despondent resignation you put on your uniform and head over to the armory. In a last-ditch moment of weakness, you stuff your comlink in your pocket.

When you arrive this time, there is no gossip, only silence. Everyone stares at you as you sit down, and you see only pity and regret in their faces. Then you see it: the black envelope on your desk.

There's no need to open it. You know what it means.

You stand, the chair skidding the floor as you rise, as you take the letter and stuff it into your pocket. There are no tears, no sad goodbyes. You don't even turn to acknowledge the others. They had plenty of chances to help you, and they didn't. You can't help but conclude that you will not be missed. So you make your way out of the room, down the hallway, unable to suppress your anger. As you head to your destination, your footsteps grow louder, your hands balling into fists at your sides. Does it even matter what you do now? What would happen if you tried to escape or head to a sector you don't have clearance to enter? They can't kill you twice, can they?

Your pocket beeps. You find a women's refresher, hurry into a stall and open your comlink.

_[Mae. It's me.]_

_[Finn? What's going on?]_

_[I came back for you. I have a starship. If you can make it to the hangar bay in sector 12, I can meet you. Are you coming?]_

_[I can't… They've scheduled my destruction.]_

_[Leave them behind. Come with me, Mae.]_

_[Okay. I'll be there soon.]_

_[Hurry. I don't know how long we have.]_

You decide to head to sector 12. What choice do you have? The General wants you dead—

When did FN-2187 learn to fly a starship? you wonder. He must have made friends with a pilot, the Resistance pilot, maybe?

It's disarmingly easy to get there, you notice—you don't have clearance, but thankfully, no one seems to recognize you and security is lax. The officers at the checkpoints simply nod.

It doesn't matter. None of this matters. All that matters is FN-2187—Finn—and he's waiting, just beyond this next hallway. You have to resist the temptation to run, because if you do, you will almost certainly draw the wrong kind of attention to yourself.

If he's not here, you wonder, would you be considered a fugitive?

You finally leave the last of the long hallways and enter the hangar bay, enormous and expansive. Well, not quite. You thought this would be one of the large ones, the ones you've heard house thousands of TIE fighters. But as you nervously move forward, each step less and less certain, all you see is a shuttle and no guards.

You look around; there's no service technicians, and no officers. No one. The hangar is empty.

Did Finn kill the guards? You look for blaster bolt holes in the walls, but they are immaculate. Where is he? Where is everyone?

The ramp to the shuttle opens with a hiss, and as you watch it descend, you hear the blast doors behind you close, and you anxiously turn to look at them. Then you turn back to the shuttle. The ramp has fully descended, and you rush up to it.

“Finn?” you call out.

You go to rush forward, to climb the ramp, but you can't move.

Then, to your sickening, abject horror, you hear a familiar voice.

“I'm afraid not, MA-3425.”

A black-gloved hand reaches for you, and you lose consciousness completely. You don't feel it when you hit the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

You wake up to the sound of a jarring thud, and try to move your head to see where it came from. Your field of vision is limited, however, by the cold metal device holding your head in place. It's a little snug, but whoever captured you knew not to cut off the blood flow to your brain.

“I'm innocent,” you protest loudly. You've had enough—you were going to be terminated, what does it matter now if you defy them? What more can they do that they haven't already done to you?

“If only that were the case.”

It's Ren. You can't see him, but his voice is smooth and even, despite its distortion. You instantly regret the defiant tone in your voice.

“Did you think I wouldn't find out about you, _Mae_?”

Your entire body goes rigid and cold, and you break a sweat. You wish you could hide, but your arms are locked on either side, and you can't move your head. Your legs are strapped down, too. Ren has left nothing to chance this time.

“Mae,” he says, again, mockingly. “Did you know it was I who sent you those messages? That it was my personal hangar bay I instructed you to go to?” He pauses, then you hear chair and table legs skid; he'd been seated, and now he's standing, approaching you.

Your eyes fill with tears that roll down your cheeks immediately. “You, sir?” you gasp weakly.

“Yes,” he replies. You can feel him coming closer to you. “You should have known that I would be listening in. After all our time together, did you expect anything less?”

“No,” you admit, regrettably. “No, sir. I'm sorry, sir—” Your head flies back as your windpipe is crushed.

“Don't lie to me,” he shouts. “You were going to run away with him! So it wasn't enough, was it? None of this was enough to keep you in line. To remind you whom you serve.” Ren growls, and you hear him stomp away from you. He grunts, then you hear a loud clatter nearby—he's hurled the chair he was sitting in, and it's missed your leg—deliberately—by mere inches. Then he screams, ignites his saber and starts tearing into the wall behind you, his weapon scattering sparks across the floor with a stray few that singe your uniform as you shriek in terror.

Then he stalks back in front of you, extinguishing his saber for the moment, and you're confronted with all of his menace. “I've tolerated this long enough. You do not belong to FN-2187. You belong to the First Order. You belong to _me_.” You can see from the heaving of his chest, the way his hands tighten into fists, that he is furious, and you want to avert your eyes but you can't. “I will hunt down FN-2187, and I will kill him, for treason and for poisoning my men against me. For taking what is rightfully mine.”

From the chair you're trapped in, all you can do is struggle, shaking back and forth, but it doesn't matter—you feel an invisible weight pressing down on you, you try to scream but you can't—

Then you hear a sudden crash and a whirring, and his legendary weapon is that close to you, inches from your neck; he releases the Force hold on you and you scream in terror. “Please—sir—” You swallow, painful for your dry mouth, gasping for air.

“Do you really think you deserve my mercy? I could kill you right now. I have every right to do that. Tell me why I shouldn't—you get one answer.”

You're shivering; the heat of the weapon so close to your face is burning you, the light so bright you've closed your eyes and are turning away, hurting your neck. You rifle through a number of answers in your head—no, you're not worth anything to him, there are millions out there just like you. You can't prove your loyalty, can you? _“You belong to me.”_

You do your best to breathe, and when you find the words, you say them slowly, carefully. “I belong to you, sir,” you echo. “I belong to you. The First Order gave me life and purpose. Please—don't squander it. Sir...”

Seconds drag by agonizingly slowly, until he extinguishes his saber, hooking it back to his belt. He's still shaking with rage, and his trembling gloved hands reach up to touch the sides of his helmet. You stare at him, feeling both relief and disbelief, as he presses something on either side of his head, removing his mask to reveal—

Shock sends your stomach reeling.

His dead-eyed stare pierces you, eyes so brown they're almost black, and you take a long, curious moment to look upon the face of Kylo Ren. Those are human eyes, a human face, but his expression and demeanor are anything but. The masked enigma in your mind dissolves into the vision of a human killer: aggressive, resolute, unstoppable. Ren is young, soft, angular and somehow every bit as frightening as you imagined.

“You thought I was deformed,” he bites out, shocking you yet again with the power to read your thoughts, and you wince as he slams his helmet down on the table. “That I was hiding. It never occurred to you that I was anything other than a monster. Consider yourself lucky. A monster would have killed you by now.” He unhooks his belt, wrenching it off, tossing it behind him, followed by his cowl, tunic and armor.

Somehow, even without the regalia, he remains a mystery, powerful, that power all the more overwhelming contained in a human body. His physique is impressive, hard, tight muscles outlined by his shirt, as your eyes follow the lines of the straps holding up his tight pants.

“Getting a good look?” he asks flatly, tossing his gloves on the table next to his helmet. You're unable to reply. He steps closer, then unlocks the cuffs holding you in place. You go to scramble out of the chair and run, but you find yourself immobilized as soon as you're able to stand.

“You're not going anywhere, MA-3425. Not until you pay for what you've done.”

To your horror, your limbs move against your will, unzipping your uniform jacket, pulling your shirt over your head, removing your boots and socks, pulling down your pants. You feel Ren circling around you like a bird of prey, as your mutinous hands reach behind your back to unhook your bra, pull down your panties, until you're completely nude before him. Tears stream down your face, from humiliation, fear, dread. You want to beg him to let you go, but you can't—you both know that this is the price you are paying for your life.

“You. Belong. To me,” Ren repeats. “Get on that table. Lie back.”

You shakily do as he asks, stumbling slightly in your anxiety and hurriedness. The table is cold, and as you shift slightly to try to get comfortable, Ren grabs at the fabric of his pants. You look back up at him suddenly, eyes flickering from his cold, lifeless stare down to where he is now shifting fabric back and forth over his cock. He's hard, you notice—does he get off on torturing prisoners?

Is this what he would have done to the Resistance pilot had FN-2187 not helped him escape?

“Lie back,” he reminds you, and before you're able to obey him he's suddenly right there, shoving your shoulders down against the table, your head only narrowly avoiding collision with the tabletop. You hear more rustling fabric, and then he takes your thighs in his large hands, pulls you closer to him, before issuing a warning.

“If you attempt to escape, I will kill you instantly. If you think you can use this act against me, you are dead wrong.”

Your body relaxes as the Force hold over you is released, but it's short-lived. Without warning you feel the ache of his hard cock stretching you, easing in at first then driving in deep. You make a noise that's somewhere in between a moan and a shriek.

“Not wet enough,” he accuses. “Guess I'll have to touch you.” You're a little hurt at the undertone of disgust in his voice.

“Ah—” You feel a finger sliding against your clit, rubbing it in slow circles, and even through your fear your breath hitches. If it were another circumstance, you might even have liked it.

Then his touch slows, grows lighter. You grit your teeth in frustration and push back against his hand—if he's going to do this to you, you at least want to cum—

Ren removes his hand just in time, and your head falls back, muscles tense from straining to meet his fingers. “No,” he says, with finality, and begins thrusting, pulling back almost all the way out before slamming into you, hard, as you scream in pain. The noise seems to inspire him, and he reaches up to your breasts, squeezing them roughly in his hands, pinching your nipples hard enough to make you wail. You try to grab his wrists to stop the torment, but the second your arms twitch to move he's immobilized them on either side.

“Take it,” he growls. “You have no other options if you want to live—” In possible remembrance of your crimes—was it a crime to love? you ask yourself—your throat constricts slightly, the tears in your eyes flowing down your temples, until he's tired of torturing your windpipe and releases you. Ren is brutal inside you, driving hard and deep, his mystical power rendering you utterly helpless as your body betrays you, slicking up Ren's cock inside you, the glide becoming easier as time goes on.

“That's right,” he breathes, releasing your nipples. One of his hands goes to your thigh to hold you open, and with the other he waves two fingers from left to right in front of your vision. Your mind clouds. “Good girl. Accept your fate. You want to obey.”

“I want to obey,” you repeat.

“Forget FN-2187,” he urges. “Remember only me.”

Your eyes close, and when they open, you see Kylo Ren above you, strong, mysterious, powerful. He is the glorious hero of the First Order, the center of your world, and you realize suddenly that he is beautiful. 

“You need me,” he continues, voice shaking, breathing in deep.

“I need you,” you repeat, and mean it. You realize your arms are free, and you reach to hold your legs wide, spreading them apart to take him deep. You need closeness—your legs lock around his waist, and you reach up to his shoulders, do the best you can to embrace him as he moves. Muscles flex under your fingers, skin hot to the touch, and you look with wonder at his face, meeting his eyes. You long for him to kiss you.

“Again,” he groans.

“I need you, sir,” you cry out. “Lord Ren, I need you—”

He grunts, head bowing as he comes, a few soft breaths and sounds, his strange face tightening in pleasure. You watch with rapture, regretting the moment his hair falls across his face, obscuring it. You feel heat spreading inside of you, and your cunt pulses with need. “Please,” you whisper, and he indulges you; you cling to his shoulders as he rubs you in circles again, as you come apart under his fingers. Heat flushes your face as you moan softly, feeling your orgasm pulse around his slowly softening cock. You hear him breathe harder then, pushing in a little deeper, then as the pleasure ebbs from your satisfied clit all the way out to your limbs, he pulls out, leaving you wet as his seed leaks out of you.

Sweat glistens at his hairline, and he reaches to push his hair out of his face. Then he carefully composes himself and looks down at you.

“Who are you?”

“I am MA-3425.”

“Whom do you serve?”

“You, my lord, and the First Order.”

“Who is Mae?”

“I don't know.” 

He pauses, then asks one last question. “Who is FN-2187?”

Without missing a beat, you reply, “A traitor. An enemy. One who must be destroyed.”

“That's right.” He begins getting dressed, as you watch him with longing. “You've been hurt. You must get dressed and head to the medical bay.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ren closes his mask over his face, and once you're dressed, he reaches for you, and you close your eyes.

When you open them, you're alone. Your head is pounding, your throat aches and you feel dizzy and aching all over. You must be ill. You head to the medical bay; you're assigned a bed. You lay down, you sleep.

When you wake up, you find a fresh uniform, breakfast, and a comlink. You check it for messages, but there are none. Surely someone must have seen you injure yourself? Someone must know you've fallen ill?

“Excuse me?” you call out, and the medical droid appears, gliding in through the door and pushing back the curtain by your bed.

“Yes, miss?”

“This—this isn't my comlink,” you try to explain. “Where is mine? It must have gotten lost,” you add anxiously.

The droid looks at you pityingly. “No, miss, that one belongs to you. See, it has your number on the back.”

You turn it over and sure enough, it's yours. “But there are no messages.”

“Are you expecting any?” the droid asks politely.

You open your mouth to speak, then close it again, puzzled.

“Oh, I do have one message,” the droid adds. You perk up. “You've been reassigned.”

“I—I have?”

“Kylo Ren has noticed your exemplary work in the armory, and wishes for you to continue your service on the Star Destroyer _Finalizer_ ,” the medical droid explains cheerfully. “Congratulations, miss.”

“I… thank you,” you respond, and the droid bows and departs. You feel elation, but something feels… out of place.

You must still be ill, and your head still aches. You lay down, close your eyes, and fall asleep.

You have no dreams, and in the morning, you have no new messages.


End file.
